A/N: Warnings: suicidal thoughts/actions, depression, and mention of drugs. What happened on the plane in HLV.
Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
"In all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, 'It might have been.'" - Kurt Vonnegut
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Everything. Everything you've ever done, is what you did.
He is calm boarding the plane. The excruciating part is over. There's no danger here. All Sherlock has to do is drift away.
He unbuttons his jacket and takes the seat on the right side, specifically for the direction it is not facing. Normally there would be a slight ache from clenching his abdominal muscles while sitting down, but there is no pain now. Or perhaps he is numb to the smaller wounds that accompany him.
This is hard. Really hard. Hardest thing I've ever had to do.
The Game has forced them to say goodbyes in the past, but they were never final. It seemed impossible before today that he would ever have to leave permanently. There was always a cheat code, a short cut back.
Until Mary.
Dear Mary… Mother Mary.
Until Mary, the idea of his own mortality was foreign. Of course he would die. The knowledge never frightened him though. He knew John would be there when he returned after those two long years away. Even though the nights were sometimes so cold and empty, he knew each unforgivable dawn brought him closer to the minute he could come home. Even though he was dead, John would never cease waiting, just as he would never stop until the very last of Moriarty's network was buried.
But he realized on the night of his return that Mary fulfilled a part of John's world that he could not. That perhaps, he would die without the part of his being that he has come to cherish, that he has come to depend on as steadfastly as the beating of his heart.
Such poisonous truths were introduced to him the moment she said, "I do." She will take care of John. She will keep the promise that he could not.
In all his life, in all his memories, he cannot recall a single moment which has ever come close to the torture of John's hand leaving his.
How did it come to this? This mess… this absolute hell where John is… is not? Only one week ago they were celebrating Christmas.
One week. Could it have truly been just seven days ago? And it only took half an hour to destroy everything he had foolishly worked to preserve. He thought he could fix it. He thought he could help Mary. He could save her a lifetime of debt to Magnussen. He was supposed to protect her and John and the baby.
Sherlock has made one enormous mistake.
A gun shot ricochets in his head. He presses two fingers to his temple. His pulse throbs.
It cost him everything. The skin on his back, the breath from his lungs he had shed to take down the remaining network. Two years without John. Two horrible years that could have been spent… no. Not even in that lifetime. Merely Wishful Thinking. Would he still have met Mary?
What life? I've been away.
No. John wouldn't have met Mary. Sherlock burdened him with his existence. He burdened John with his death. There is no reality where he and Sherlock are not. Except this one. Soon, there will only be John.
Don't try to be clever.
His face burns. He keeps his head turned toward the window and presses his knuckles into his eyes.
He should have listened. John was right. Always right. John always knows.
As far as the public will know, it will be accidental. All of Scotland Yard will soon be cashing in bets. If word travels about the truth, Sherlock does not mind. He has already died once in disgrace. He wonders if it is like when the pipe hit him in...
The scars on his back ache. He clenches his fist to keep from reaching back and soothing them. He does not deserve relief. Perhaps this second disgrace is comparable to when the brute hit him the second time. Didn't hurt as much as the first.
It still hurts though.
The paper next to his phone, folded twice, crinkles in his trouser pocket. It feels heavier than before. Soon everything will have a weight to it. He won't be able to even open his eyes.
He didn't have to do it, there was no point this time, but it allowed him a sense of normality while shooting up. Survival instinct kicked in after forty minutes, brain telling him to stop, too much. So he started writing. It… oddly… calmed him.
There is a black suitcase in the overhead bin. It passed inspection. He only packed it to avoid suspicion. He was allowed back to Baker Street after his sentence to collect what would be needed for this mission.
Looking around the flat, he saw with underwhelming clarity how meaningless everything is; his beloved instrument still in one piece after twenty five years, the experiments, his entire life and career. It's all worthless, transport. He would abandon it all. He will miss nothing, because there is only one thing on this earth that he must take with him anywhere he has and would have gone.
And Sherlock will never see him again.
An empty suitcase would have sufficed.
It's what people do don't they?
However, for John's peace of mind, on the back of a sheet of music, there is… a will of sorts. He doesn't remember what he wrote. He doesn't care what John does with his belongings. He did not want any of it, so why should John?
His chest tightens. He cannot pretend it is simply the concoction surging through his body because it shouldn't be taking effect this soon.
The despair that washes over him doesn't drown him as it should have. The drugs keep everything at a hazy distance. That is why it is called a high. He will soon be above it all, and never have to ground himself again.
He will be okay. John can continue. John does not need like Sherlock does.
The door closes behind the flight attendant. Locks, and the plane begins its departure. They waste no time. In fact, time seems to have sped up. Or maybe he is the one slowing down.
Is he truly surprised by his fate? Is he that dumb to have not seen this?
He was an addict who became a detective because police don't want to listen to the truth when it is a little boy or a junkie telling them what is right in front of their eyes. He was an egotistical sociopath who cared more about his cleverness than the lives of the people who needed protection.
I'll continue not to make that mistake.
Sherlock's heart pounds against his ribs and he fidgets with the collar that feels like it could strangle him at any moment.
The point of his work was to distance himself from human error. The drugs had been drawing him deeper and deeper into an inescapable pit, but he found that the mysteries provided an adequate high for his brain. It was never about the clients, so there was never a point to connect with them. All that mattered was that he stay distracted.
But five years ago, on a perfectly ordinary day, a retired military surgeon with a psychosomatic limp offered him his phone. And three months later, he gave Sherlock consent to set off the explosives, that would most certainly result in both their deaths, if it meant a bomber was stopped. He worried for his mental acuity upon discovering he feared a drug induced vision of a hound. He was his one, his only, friend. He grieved his loss. Oh, how he grieved.
His best and most cherished friend - for that is all he was and would have ever been and no more - was a doctor with a danger addiction who lived with him and married an assassin. He is attracted to dangerous situations and people.
Sherlock never imagined anyone with a pulse would grieve over him. But he does not deserve John's grief now. He failed.
Mycroft has accepted his fate, so why does it trouble him to do the same?
John, there's something… I should say.
He couldn't. It would have been far too messy a truth had he told John. He had managed to keep it hidden for this long. What was a little longer? Of course there is a traitorous part of him that wishes he had not said what he said, but he would remember John's smile until his last breath. Sherlock can only hope that John understands he would never leave him if he was given a choice. That he had made his vow under the same oath the Watsons had earlier that day, that this was the only choice he was given, that if he was more than what he is, they would not part at death.
But therein is his greatest regret. William Sherlock Scott is just a man, a body of tissue and consciousness that can be dissected and buried.
Sherlock leans his head back. Everything is beginning to blur, and the acceleration from the plane's take off sends the cabin spinning.
Not long now.
The flight attendant will think him asleep. At the landing strip in Kiev, and she will tap his shoulder to let him know that they have arrived, and he won't respond. There will be no point in taking the body to a hospital. He will have been dead for several hours by then. Body cool to the touch, livor mortis set in with the blood pooled the back of the thighs, buttocks, and soles of the feet. The body will be stiff wit onsets of rigor mortis. Molly has seen it time and time again. This one will be no different. It will be delivered back to the United Kingdom, and a funeral will follow.
John Watson will grieve, but Mary won't let him hurt like last time. Sherlock wasn't lying. (Never when it comes to John.) He can think of no other man who could be a better parent.
The plane leaves the tarmac and he watches the trees below, shrinking as the plane gains height. Once the plane gets high enough, it will ascend the cloud cover and he will be able to see the sun. As last looks go, it could be much worse.
But he does not believe in Heaven, so it does not comfort him to think that this is what angels see.
Sherlock closes his eyes.
There is John, smiling. Smiling at him. They are together, like Before… yet it seems so far away, like a dream. It can't be a memory, because so much has changed. So much lost.
"Did it hurt him, Mummy?"
He blinks hard at the vision in front of him.
"It's just like falling asleep, Willy. He's not suffering anymore."
He stifles the sharp gasp that stutters into his lungs. He thought he could do it this way, alone. But he greatly overestimated his apathy. He needs John there with him. Even if they could not speak to each other, or look at each other, then he would concede. It would be more bearable than this.
But John is standing on the tarmac, probably miles away now. Gone forever and ever and ever. The end. A story doomed to end in -
Oh. Sherlock stares at the seat across from him.
He fumbles for his phone and grips it tight in his shaking hands. His palms are sweating, making it difficult to type. It is not fear, he tells himself. He gulps softly and steadies his fingers.
The words blur just a tad on the screen. Just the drugs taking effect.
A quick keyword in a search engine and he pulls it up.
29th January 2010, A Strange Meeting
Sherlock blinks hard and the words swirl into focus.
The man knew who I was.
It's mad. I think he might be mad.
So, tomorrow we're off to look at a flat. Me and a madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.
His eyes are stinging again, and John's words are too blurry to read anymore. Idiot. He shuts it off and tosses it in the cup holder. He rests his head in his hands.
John didn't need to stay. Why did he? What sane man chooses to stay with a man possibly verging on psychotic? He should have walked out.
"Sorry, no thank you. I don't room with nutters."
Called the police upon seeing the skull.
"Yes sir, there's a lunatic with a body part in his flat."
Told the cab to stop.
"Piss off you freak. Who the hell would share a flat with you?"
But he did stay. And they were the best years of Sherlock's life.
Curse Mycroft for making him share flat just so he could have permission to live on his own. Curse Mike Stamford for introducing them. Curse John, yes, curse John, for staying by his side even at his lowest. When he came home high, when he heated tongues in the microwave, when the media turned against him, when he leapt from Bart's. Curse John for making him foolish.
He leans against the arm rest. The plane has angled sideways.
"Sir?"
Just brilliant. An agent pulls him out the fog in which he has immersed himself. Sherlock glances at him, irritated, then at the phone he's holding. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. Not now.
"It's your brother," the agent says.
He frowns and his insides tighten as he leans forward to take it. Of course Mycroft isn't going to let him leave without a final word. He swallows to clear cotton in his mouth. He holds the phone to his ear and looks out again.
"Mycroft." Good. He sounds normal.
"Hello little brother. How's the exile going?"
The taunt doesn't cut like it should. He is tired. For once, he doesn't want to trade insults.
"I've only been gone four minutes," he snaps.
"Well I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson."
Sherlock blinks. The hell?
"As it turns out, you're needed."
The world fades out for the seconds his heart skips in its rhythm. Did he hear that right? No. Surely not. Surely Mycroft is provoking him. He's descended to an even lower level of despicable. This can't be…
The plane has made a round turn and Sherlock can see the tarmac. The black car sitting next to two small figures.
The plane has turned around.
But why? He is a murderer – he shot a man in the head. He has been sentenced to die!
Was it all a ruse? A… cruel prank to send him spiraling back to where he had been ten years ago? No. No, Mycroft isn't that sadistic. Did he see through the act? No, Sherlock was careful.
What the hell is going on?
"For god's sake make up your mind. Who needs me this time?"
Mycroft pauses on the other end. Sherlock watches the landscape like the rewinding of a video. He's on the left side now. He will see John and Mary when the plane lands.
"England."
Sherlock snorts, clearing the tension in his throat. He desperately rubs at his eyes. There is a high keening in his head from the mounting hysteria. God no. He will see. They will all know. Mycroft will know you were a coward. John will... Jesus. What will John say?
"You sure they want me back on their soil?"
"You are now the lesser of two evils. It appears, Sherlock, that the devil has risen."
The devil.
Two reptilian eyes, cold and malicious, blink at him through the mist hovering in the cabin, the mad grin of the spider who bested him baring white, devouring teeth.
You're on the side of the angels.
No. No, it can't be. That's… impossible. He was dead at his feet. Back of his head blown out and blood trickling against the concrete like a river of brain matter.
"And he wants to know if we have missed him."
Sherlock cannot speak. His tongue is too heavy. He is fading. There is a roaring in his ears, blocking out what Mycroft says next. He is descending, the world blurring. The phone is too heavy to hold any longer. It drops from his sweaty grasp and he stares straight ahead.
No. He shakes his head, blinking to clear the darkness. He's changed his mind. He has to stay. He has to focus.
Focus. If he is back…
But why now? How? How could he have possibly known when to return?
His heart thunders against his sternum. No. No time for that. He inhales and lets it out slow. He must relax. Too much attachment to the outside will hinder what happens next.
:Search/95=how+does+one+return+from+the+dead+?/
His fingers loosen around the armrests.
He has to know for sure. He has to go back. Before. Before the Fall… before the Game, before John Watson.
The roaring fades. The numbers tick down, down… down…
Dear Jim. Please. Please, would you fix it for me?
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